the sun slides down

lays her golden head

on Dodger mountain

i look around the apartment

notice that i don’t have much

just a few books

electronic essentials

some cooking utensils

work files and water color trays

an old nonoperational

Bell and Howell

and i wonder

was it ever

my intention

to live like an old

widowed bitter sailor or

to be a neat little wife

to have douching schedules

and cook kosher Shabbat dinners

and worship at the west side Temple

roll with the punches like ladies do

claw at my chest with dignity

and gasp at the lukewarm horror

that Stanley cheated on Sherryl

while my praised dentist husband

works her very late most nights

or was it ever my intention

to be rich and famous

with lovers of all intersections

and gleefully snort exuberant amounts of blow

while getting handcuffed away to the station

wearing my sexy Nirvana ripped collar t shirt

now stuffed away in my mid week LA night

freckled with hoarse tooting car horns

and blinking half dead street lights

i breathe deeply and smile

wondering what my intentions

will be when i grow up

and painfully emancipate from this

spiritually bereft confusing mess

that squeezes me tight

as she coyly stands

quietly in front of

that old thrift store

Bell and Howell